


Aces High

by Anon (Walor)



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: A bunch of dudes being gay, A bunch of dudes being guys, Gen, some mentions of one dude being into necrophilia, these fucking guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 02:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14486562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Anon
Summary: The men have a lot of time waiting around for Roman's orders. When the cat's away the mice play, huh?





	Aces High

**Author's Note:**

> False Face Society Members all from the jayroman discord. We love our little bastards

They have a jar in the basement.

No one exactly knows who put it there and why only that it was there one day. It was a big mason jar that stunk of moonshine with questionable scum along the rim. Someone made a joke about it being a swear jar and while Froggo wasn’t there to know who said so, he bet it was Winky running his mouth to Judas because he _would_  make a jab at Judas' tendency to swear despite being a former altar boy. Then it was “no stealing food from the bar fridge” jar, “pissing off Roman” jar, “don’t touch my magazines again Grease or I’ll choke you with your own balls” jar, and finally “the pot.” Inside is about five or so dollars worth of quarters—which Froggo just assumes because he’s always been shit at math but there seems to be a decent amount—some pennies and a gift card to the Stacked Deck. Which blew Froggo’s mind because the image of one of the costumed freaks like Quinn giving Joker a gift card to the Deck on his birthday was more bizarre than a man who dressed as a bat who ran with prepubescent boys (and the GCPD called _them_ degenerate scum). All he knows is that the jar has become a staple of the Janus Cosmetics building’s basement interior, along with a rickety metal table and about a dozen chairs. It sits in the middle of the table, a decorative centerpiece, surrounded by cigarette burns and stains from spilled beer while the men play cards. Whoever wins takes the contents that have been inside it since it’s appearance.

If they ever manage to finish a game without an interruption of the mask or bat variety, of course.

Tonight there’s a lot of them. Bob’s dealing because he’s the only one of them who’s decent enough not to rig the game outright—as if they’d ever let Tom do it again, who got lucky enough to earn four royal flushes in a row? Half of them have their masks on, which makes it really hard to get a read on their hands. It’s especially true for Chain who’s had the same stoic reaction to a junk hand and a house aces full. Froggo’s own mask sits on the table next to him, sleeves pushed up to the elbow to make sure he “don’t cheat.” Doesn’t like it, feels naked without his mask, but it’s the only way the guys would let him play and Froggo needs to start making friends. Needs to start moving up the ladder at some point if he wants to stop being “cannon fodder” and be a real False Face Society member.

“Are you paying attention, Froggo?”

Froggo glances up from his hand. His cards aren’t that great, a pair of sevens, but half of the men are hardly paying attention or look vaguely upset—Crybaby as a perfect example with the threat of tears already gathering on his dark lashes. He’d sort of hoped he’d be able to change his luck staring hard enough at the cards they’d turn into aces. It’s the last hand of the game and it looks like Froggo’s about to lose. Judas studies him quietly and says. “Well?”

“I wasn’t, what’d you say?”

Winky barks a harsh laugh from the other end of a table. “I don’t blame ya, Froggo, Judas could put a meth head high on coke to sleep.”

No one likes Winky that much, as far as Froggo can tell. Runs his mouth too much, stupider than a box of tacks, and has a tendency to cling to the nearest person who gives him more than a second’s time. This week’s obsession seems to be Daff Ponk, which makes the two of them nearly impossible to be around—because the only thing worse than one chatterbox is _two_.

“Who the fuck asked you, huh?” Judas shakes his head. “Why couldn’t the boss take your tongue instead of your eyes? I said you calling or folding, Froggo?”

“Roman wouldn’t take his tongue, who else is he gonna get to suck his dick later?” Grease elbows Froggo with a grin and shakes his head to Judas. “He’s folding.”

“Hey, you don’t get to call for me,” Froggo frowns and Grease wraps an arm around his neck. Pats his shoulder and smiles.

“I saw your hand, you’re folding unless you want to lose even more than seven bucks in change and a free drink at the Deck. I’ll go first,” Grease lays down his cards, a straight. “Take a look, boys.”

There’s an instant series of groans around the table. Chain’s already putting down his cards, a pair kings over two, and dropping the other half of his wager, a bowie knife Froggo’s been eyeing for the past month on the table. Daff and Winky throw their respective wagers, hollow point 9mm ammunition in the pot without pausing their conversation. Froggo catches the tail end of “East End whore on seventh with the best tits” and bets his month’s rent they’ll be squeezing out of the basement to find more darling company in the hour. Judas reaches into his pocket and adds a pocket watch, engraved with some European coat of arms, angry and irritated. Tom, who’s been playing with his cards more than he’s been playing the game, sets down his own hand.

“Four of a kind, queens. Looks like I’m getting that diamond trophy of yours, Greasy,” Tom slips a hand into his pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights up. Froggo catches a glimpse of the corner of a card poking up from the interior of the carton. Thinks about saying something—but that would be his word against an older member—and hesitates. Doesn’t have to because Bob lays down his hand, a full house with a pair of queens.

“Unless there are six queens to a deck now, you’re full of shit,” Bob smacks the carton out of his hand. The cigarettes go rolling across the table along with three aces, two kings, and five jacks. “Put your wager on the table.”

Tom adjusts his watch, pushing it higher up on the long, delicate curve of his wrist and glares at Bob. Without so much as a blink, he raises his foot up off the floor and slams it on the table. “Done.”

“Winner gets what exactly?” Grease fishes through his pocket and tosses a diamond necklace he stole off a bird at one of Wayne’s galas, onto the table. “One used up shoe?”

“No, they get what the shoe’s attached to. In this case, scabies with syphilis,” one of the quieter guys sits up and places a switchblade with an ivory handle with the other items. The rest of the men laugh while Tom leans further back in his chair and smokes.

“Ha, ha, you’re a fucking comedian, New Guy.”

“Hope one of you guys are putting bleach into the pot to wipe down that chair afterward,” the man to his left with the name “Soft Boy”—though he’s hardly soft or a _boy_ —drops his cards on the table and slips one of the half a dozen rings off his finger and onto the table. “I’m sure one of the Sowbugs can find something appropriate to kill off Tom’s level of infections.”

“Sure, they know you down there by name, don’t they, Soft? Saw you eyeing that dead Jane when Roman had her carted down after play time,” Tom snaps. Froggo shudders as Soft shrugs next to him.

“She had a pretty mouth,” Soft grins, sliding his tongue along the pointed edge of his canine. “Alright, is that everyone? Who else has to go?”

“Baby does,” Grease sighs and glances over to the stuttering, shaking mess on Bob’s opposite side. He’s holding his cards close to his chest.

“Come on, Baby, go ahead, can’t be worse than Froggo’s hand,” Grease has already lost interest in the pot. He’s slipping his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through saved pictures of one of his favorite girls in Crime Alley.

Froggo flushes. “Come on guys.”

“What?” Grease turns and glares at him with a raised brow. “You going to get upset about it? We don’t need two crybabies, put on your big boy pants, Froggo. Come on Babes let’s see ‘em.”

Crybaby, shaking slightly, lays down his cards at the end of the table. The room goes silent. Five bright red diamonds. An ace, a king, a queen, a jack, and a ten. _A royal flush_. Fucking hell.

“Holy shit,” Winky says, impossibly, miraculously quiet. “ _Holy shit_ , Baby.”

“Crybaby, won the fucking jar, are you kidding me?” Grease leans back in his chair. “Talk about the underdog coming out on top.”

“Hopefully, that’s something we’ll get to see, eh, Tommy?” Soft Boy smirks and looks at Froggo. “You ain’t ever gotten one of his famous “wrist jobs” yet, have you? God, I’ve never come so hard from something that weird in ages.”

“You mean something that has a pulse. Soft, I don’t think necrophilia counts as _normal_ ,” Grease looks over to Crybaby. “Can you at least tell me who you’re going to buy that free drink at the Deck for, Baby?”

Crybaby flushes and Froggo’s not gay, okay, but the way the faint pink rises along the curve of cheekbone in Crybaby’s soft, sharp face is nothing short of erotic. It’s almost impossible not to trace the blush along the lines of his long, unmarked neck and Froggo—no doubt the entire table—wonders just how far the color creeps down the paleness of his chest.

“I don’t know,” Crybaby’s voice is a soft tenor, unmuffled by the leather of his mask. “Maybe Ms. Li?”

The kid’s crush on Ms. Li is about as obvious as Chain’s golden necklace. Anyone and everyone can tell he’s got the hots for her, no matter how unlikely she’ll even look at him. The men around the table hoot and whistle, Grease even slaps him on the back as he walks by.

“Good for ya, Baby, women love confidence.”

“They also like a full bank account,” Daff mutters. “Fuckin’ Gotham women.”

“Who would say no to that face,” Bob says. There’s a chorus of acknowledgment. It’s true, none of them would.

“Alright, Baby,” Tom pulls his foot off the table and pats his lap. “Come get your prize.”

“Shit, if this is what happens when I lose I’ll remember to do it more often.” Winky adjusts himself in his seat, spreading his legs comically wider.

“Quiet,” Chain says. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

Crybaby is slow to approach, nervously biting his already plush bottom lip as he steps beside Tom. Tom smirks, and crooks a finger, beckoning him down. Crybaby leans in, hesitantly wetting his lips before he brushes his nose against Tom’s forehead and gently presses the faintest graze of his lips against Tom’s skin. Froggo’s never been a fan of romantic, vanilla shit, but the way Crybaby’s face darkens to gorgeous ruby red is enough to even make his own dick take notice.

Of course, that’s when Tom stops Crybaby, taking his chin with his oddly long and feminine fingers. Trails them up along his cheek and through the curls of his light blonde hair. He pulls Baby down all gentle-like and finally meets him halfway with an open mouth. Crybaby stiffens, eyes blown wide. If Froggo didn’t know any better, he’d guess it was the kid’s first kiss. That adds a whole level of sexy at the awkward innocence in Crybaby’s startled and muffled gasp. Then Tom drops his hand from his hair, wraps it around his shoulders and drags him closer until Crybaby has to place his hands on Tom’s shoulders to steady himself.

Tom kisses Crybaby again, deeper. The flash of white teeth as he bites at Crybaby’s lip, swallowing the accompanying sharp intake of breath. Tom’s other hand snakes up Crybaby’s other arm and loops through his own fingers. Finally, Tom draws back after a long moment, spit-slick lip glistening in the dim lights of the basement. Crybaby's panting, eyes blown wide and lips bruised red.

It’s like a collective gust sweeps through the basement as the rest of the men exhale their long-held breath. Blood roaring in his ears Froggo takes a look at the door and tries to think of the fastest way to the bathroom. Along with probably all the other men too.


End file.
